The Lyrics To Your Tune
by ThePet
Summary: Long-promised Snape/McGonagall angst fic. Some romance, no slush, nothing physical. Continuation of the 'Snape's redemption' theme, featuring Bitter/Jealous!Severus. 2 UP
1. Author's Notes

Author's Note  
  
This is the Severus/Minerva angst I've been promising for a while now, set in the 'Remember Him/Penance' future timeline. Thanks very much to all those who reviewed that story and offered encouragement and comments, which inspired me to complete it and continue with this one!  
  
For anyone who hasn't read 'Remember Him/Penance', you don't need to have read it to read this story, but it might make more sense. For anyone who might want it I've written a brief summary of 'Penance', posted as chapter two, explaining how the characters in this story reached the position they're in.  
  
Notes on the current story:  
  
Main characters Snape and McGonagall, also featuring most of the main characters from the HP universe, especially Hermione Granger, Sirius Black, and Harry. This story has more of a romantic twist than 'When in Rome...' (which will be updated someday, I promise!) and 'If you go down to the woods today...' No slush, though! I don't write slush ;-) It makes me sick ;-)  
  
Next chapter is a short summary of the important developments in 'Remember Him/Penance'; third chapter is the start of the present story. I love reviews, and any suggestions/criticisms/comments would be appreciated! Thank you!  
  
Finally a brief disclaimer: all characters and locations in the story belong to J.K. Rowling. The title and lyrics that begin each chapter are taken from an Elton John song, 'Mansfield', and can be found on the album 'Songs from the West Coast'. 


	2. Penance Summary(optional)

Summary of 'Remember Him, or, Penance'  
  
If you plan to read the story - not that I'm plugging it at all ;-) it's probably better not to read this summary, since it would give everything away.   
  
This story began with the conclusion of the final battle against Voldemort (yes, cliché, I'm sorry!). It deals primarily with the process by which Severus Snape, along with certain other people, finds redemption. Without going into the details, the title refers to Draco and/or Lucius Malfoy, who were killed in the battle. Remus Lupin was also killed (sorry folks, honestly, I liked him too, but Sirius interests me more and Remus' death was a plot device to examine his character), as was Ginny Weasley (to whom I was neutral, this wasn't a vendetta ;-) ), and Bill Weasley.   
  
The epilogue, set twelve months after, is the important bit for current purposes, since it explains what happened to everyone following the battle. The present story follows on directly from the epilogue. Without going into detail, this is the crux: Dumbledore survived, but disappeared, and is probably dead, though no one wants to believe it. McGonagall became headmistress in his place. Snape became deputy headmaster; although he has a posh new office, he remains as head of Slytherin House, and teaches advanced classes (fifth year upwards) in potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts. The junior classes are taught by Hermione Granger, who is now married to Ron Weasley, but has kept her own surname (she didn't strike me as being likely to take her husband's name!) Snape and Hermione work quite well together but their relationship is, of course, entirely platonic ;-) They are friends, of a sort, their relationship being founded on mutual respect and understanding (Hermione reminds Snape of himself as a young man, and she has all the qualities he would have liked to see in his own daughter). Snape feels he owes a debt to Hermione, for rescuing some of his young Slytherins during the battle. He owes the same debt to Ginny, who was killed saving the children, but, as with James Potter, cannot repay it in this life.   
  
Sirius Black is now installed at Hogwarts as Transfiguration master and head of Gryffindor House, as the result of Harry's and Dumbledore's influence (he has of course been cleared of all suspicion). Snape disapproves of having animagi all over the place.  
  
Harry is not an auror or teacher but a professional Quidditch player. Well, it seemed the most likely job :-) He often visits Sirius and Hermione. Harry always believed that he and Ginny would eventually get together, and he regrets never telling her how much he cared about her. He remains single.  
  
Brief note on other characters who may appear: Snape referred in passing to the Minister of Magic being a Weasley, but which one, he didn't say ;-) Seamus Finnigan also works for the Ministry, and Dean Thomas is an internationally acclaimed artist in both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds. Finally, Winky the House-Elf, 'self-styled rehabilitator of Dark Wizards' now works for Snape, to his bemusement and occasional annoyance.  
  
Phew! That's everything important, anyway, sorry about all that! But it saves re-iterating everything in the story itself, which would interrupt the flow of the prose. Thank for your patience. The next chapter really is the story, I promise! :-) 


	3. Chapter One

The Lyrics to Your Tune  
  
Chapter One  
  
...sometimes the magic of the past is all we've got.  
  
Elton John, 'Mansfield'.  
  
  
  
"Minerva," said Professor Severus Snape, "I'm going to have a bath."  
"Good for you." Replied Minerva McGonagall, headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, without looking up from the papers she was hunting through.  
"A long, hot, *private* bath." Snape emphasised, frowning. "Which means I do *not* wish to be disturbed for the next couple of hours."  
"Why would I want to watch you bathing?" McGonagall muttered into her papers. Snape ignored this remark, but continued to hover over the headmistress' desk.  
"Severus, please go away and have your bath, or whatever it is you plan to do, and stop looming over me. It is most disconcerting, and I'm not even halfway through the evening's owls."  
Snape flashed her a look from beneath the bat's wing of greasy hair which framed his thin, sallow face.  
"Are you sure you don't need any help?"  
"I told you this morning, this afternoon, and twice this evening that I am more than capable of doing my job."  
"But there's so much paperwork..."  
"Go and do your own paperwork!" McGonagall snapped. "I'm tired of your nasty little asides implying that I'm inadequate in my position as headmistress of this school. I suppose you think you could do a better job? Do you plan to get rid of me the way you did professor Murzle?" Professor Murzle had been one of the school's short-lived Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers, who had stayed for less than a term, over two decades ago, and left in a hurry after coming down with a mysterious illness. It had been a very mild poison and a small dose at that, but Manfred Murzle had learned from the experience that one does not tangle with irate potions masters who feel they have nothing to lose.  
It was not unusual for McGonagall to make reference to Snape's various cunning - and sometimes less subtle - methods of removing competition for his much sought-after DADA position. And it was entirely the norm for the two to bicker over nothing at the slightest provocation; Professor Hagrid, the Care of Magical Creatures teacher and onetime gamekeeper, had remarked more than once that the only time Snape and McGonagall weren't arguing was when they weren't speaking to one another at all. Most of the other teachers were used to the bantering, and found it at best amusing and at worst rather childish. Professor Flitwick, always a romantic at heart, was of the opinion that the chronic low-level arguments represented nothing less than deep-seated attraction, a sort of adult equivalent of pulling the girl's pigtails or running off with the boy's schoolbag.  
In truth, both Snape and McGonagall enjoyed the bantering, finding it far the easiest way to talk to one another, effectively minimising the inevitable frustration which occurs when two very powerful and somewhat similar personalities clash. The two had much in common; they were both strict and humourless in the classroom, reserved and private among friends; both appreciated solitude and yet were affected by loneliness; both had unexpected and rarely revealed vulnerabilities. Despite the difference in their ages they shared many similar tastes. And yes, there were a number of rumours spreading rapidly among both staff and pupils that McGonagall and her deputy headmaster were 'carrying on'.  
In view of all this, which might be best summarised as a special understanding between the two, Snape was not surprisingly concerned by McGonagall's uncharacteristically angry behaviour, which (he admitted freely to himself) was far closer to his own irritable mien than McGonagall's sometimes impatient, but invariably fair, attitude. She had snapped at him before, even accused him of trying to poison her before, halfheartedly, but this furious paranoia was completely out of character for Minerva. Snape, who himself was unusually quiet and placid during the tirade, wondered whether he and she were rubbing off on one another after all those years of warring.  
"Minerva," he said, using his smooth, hypnotic voice to its full effect, "is something wrong? Are you ill?"  
He was startled by the vehemence of her response. She threw down her quill, thrust back her chair, and shouted right in his face,  
"Just what are you implying?"  
"Nothing!" He took a step backwards, not appreciating having his own tried-and-true intimidation methods thrown back at him by McGonagall, of all people. It was a favourite technique of Snape's to speak in a low voice, almost a whisper, while on the other side of the room from someone - and then, if their behaviour warranted it, to walk right up to them, stand nose-to-nose, and roar. It was a sort of verbal adaptation of the fencing move known as the [????], whereby the aggressor leaps forward and slams their feet on the floor, not to inflict any harm but simply to startle their opponent and thrown them off balance.  
McGonagall's {????} certainly had the desired effect on Snape. He almost fell over a chair.  
"Are you suggesting," she went on, in a low, sinister voice - yet another of Snape's pet techniques, he thought, affronted - "that I'm incapable of doing my job? I know you, you'll have everyone convinced I'm losing my mind and I'll be sent off to St. Mungo's while you set yourself up as headmaster! Well, I'm not fooled." She added, and then, abruptly, sank down into her chair again, burying her face in her hands. Snape was horrified. He hated to see McGonagall cry, partly because she was such a strong woman that any situation severe enough to reduce her to public tears must be bad indeed. Snape wondered helplessly what could have happened to distress the steadfast McGonagall so much.  
"Minerva," he said, trying to sound comforting and accessible while carefully keeping his distance, and keeping an eye on her wand, which rested on the desk, "*are* you losing your mind?"  
"Is that supposed to be a joke?" She demanded, though she spoke more quietly now in a voice roughened with tears.  
"It is a perfectly reasonable question under the circumstances." He lectured her, attempting to inject some normality into this bizarre situation. To his distress she gave a smothered sob.  
"What on earth's the matter?" He spoke as gently as possible, forgetting to be offended and patting her awkwardly on the shoulder.  
"Oh, Severus!" She grabbed his hand. He jumped, never having enjoyed comforting distressed people; he also rather disliked being touched without fair warning. Or indeed at all.  
"Yes, what?" He asked, continuing to rub her shoulder with his free hand in what he hoped was a soothing manner.   
"I'm sorry." Came the whispered response.   
"Oh. Forget it. You've said far worse to me in the past." To his alarm this seemed to upset her even more. She sobbed.  
"Oh, now, stop bleating...I mean, crying...you stupid woman - Minerva. Stop crying, Minerva. There's nothing to cry about." He flinched, aware of the mistake - genuinely made, he had never been good at this sort of thing - and waiting for another torrent of verbal blows. But to his surprise - and relief - she gave a tiny small through her tears, and squeezed his hand.  
"Don't ever change." She murmured.  
"Eh?"  
But McGonagall simply shook her head, and, after a moment, leaned against his shoulder. He sat awkwardly on the arm of her chair. Silence blossomed, and deepened. After a few minutes, Minerva sat up and wiped her eyes briskly.  
"How silly." She muttered, in a more normal tone. "And what a time to choose to be foolish - with all this paperwork to do..."  
"Minerva..."  
"Severus," she interrupted, "I'm very sorry for what I said to you. I haven't been feeling myself today. I'm a little under the weather but I'm sure it will pass. Now if you'll excuse me I really must get on with this - why don't you go and have your bath?"  
"You're not fobbing me off that easily. What's the matter? Why won't you tell me?" McGonagall bit her lips, bending her head determinedly over her paperwork. Snape paced up and down, fretful and increasingly annoyed.   
"You've been acting strangely for some time, now I come to think of it. You've missed dinner on several occasions recently."  
"So have you!" She countered.  
"That's because I can't stand moronic dinner table chatter." He replied, dryly. "It's unusual for you to miss meals in Hall - the headmistress is expected to be in attendance."  
"Just because I don't have the luxury of getting away with what is really rudeness, pure and simple, by calling it eccentricity..."  
Snape gave an internal sigh of relief. This was much more like a normal conversation.  
"My point is," he pressed, "that in the last couple of months or so, you have regularly neglected the most basic of your duties..."  
"How dare you!" McGonagall sat up, her eyes blazing, her lips compressing into an ever thinner line.  
"I didn't mean it like that..." Snape growled back, losing his temper.  
"Get out!"  
"I beg your pardon...?"  
"I said, get out. Leave. Go." McGonagall sighed; her anger seemed to dissipate, leaving only a sort of weary tension. "I don't want to discuss this with you, Severus. Please leave me alone."  
"I think..."  
"Go!" She almost moaned, pressing a hand feverishly to her forehead. Snape hesitated just a moment before turning on his heel and storming out of the room without another word, slamming the protesting door violently behind him. He might have stayed, might have attempted to draw out of her whatever the trouble was, if not for that one phrase, 'I don't want to discuss this with *you*'. Who was she talking to about her problems, then? Hermione? Flitwick? Sirius Black? Snape had throughout his life been continually prone to jealousy; it was a part of his character he had never been able to conquer, and one which led him ultimately to unhappiness. He hated the thought that Minerva might be confiding in Black instead of him. She *should* confide in Snape; they had been friends for years, he was the deputy headmaster, they had been through a great deal together. And yet when she was at her most troubled she turned to Black. Well, of course she would, wouldn't she? Black was another do-gooding Gryffindor, another bloody animagus, and he was generous, warm, accessible, a good listener, all things Snape was not. He was also attractive and charming. It wasn't surprising that Minerva preferred smooth-talking Sirius Black to the bitter, irascible, ugly head of Slytherin, tainted as he was with a dark past and darker associations. Wonderful, perfect Sirius Black, so maligned, so courageous, beloved hero of witches and wizards everywhere, just like his holier-than-though godson. To hell with all of them, Snape thought furiously. Damn the lot.  
By the time he reached his office - the deputy headmaster's office, located in a tower room - Snape's temper had cooled a little. Unfortunately, however, the first thing he saw on opening the door was that blasted painting - the life size portrait of himself, presented to him by Dean Thomas last year. It was the only picture of himself Snape had ever liked; it was also the only picture in which he was smiling. Furious-Snape met the eyes of inexplicably-happy-Snape and glowered. Portrait-Snape's smile turned a little wry, and his left eyebrow lifted.  
"Don't look at me like that, you ugly sod." Snape growled at himself.  
"Charming." Replied the portrait, with a painted shrug.  
"Just shut up." Snape told it. The painting obediently fell silent and still, allowing Snape to study it more carefully than he had since the first time he had seen it. He scrutinised the face; even smiling, it was very far from handsome. Not even average, he decided, grimly - bitterness and grief had left deep lines in the forehead, the cheeks were thin and sunken, the skin sallow and sickly looking. Even the smile, now he came to look at it closely, seemed twisted, as though portrait-Snape was sucking a lemon. It had never looked that way before. Snape usually refused to care about his appearance, deciding that such preoccupation would be immensely shallow and a waste of self-loathing, which could be far more usefully applied to derogating his lifestyle, personality, and past associations. But the thought of Sirius Black, with his charming, still-boyish smile, his clean dark hair falling fetchingly over the forehead, and wicked, come-hither eyes, was unbearable today. There had been a time in his youth when Snape would have killed to be Sirius Black - handsome, popular, confident and happy; indeed, Snape *had* killed to be him, in a very real sense. Voldemort had brought death, destruction and torment, but he had promised life, happiness, love. Promises that a friendless, universally disliked and hopelessly lonely young man might just be desperate enough to fall for. Black had always had everything Snape wanted; even beating him in schoolwork, the one thing Snape had always considered to be his only really positive contribution, the only thing he was really good at. Intellect had been and was Snape's only real weapon against the Sirius Blacks of the world; but even that had been ineffective, since Black just *had* to be an animagus, able to perform some of the most complex magic ever devised.   
Snape suddenly had the urge to simply go down to Black's office and curse the mongrel into oblivion. He would watch Black die, and make him realise just why it had to happen before he was snuffed out forever. Then there would be the arrest, the trial, the questions he wouldn't bother to answer; Minerva's sorrow, perhaps guilt, realising that the whole thing had been her fault. There would be Azkaban, for life, an unending torment of misery, unredeemed by even the smallest happy thought. How was that any different to life at the moment? Snape wondered darkly. It would be worth it. If he couldn't have Black's perfect life, he didn't see why Black should have it, either. Hard on Minerva, perhaps, but then she deserved it. Over the last twelve months following the defeat of Voldemort, Snape had begun to build up a new life for himself; though his work changed little, his personal relationships had improved tremendously, as had his view of himself. For the first time since his youth, Snape felt that there might be some hope after all; perhaps there really was some kind of contentment waiting for him. Now, it was all gone. Reset to zero. Everything he had become, the painful personal growth he had gone through, the better, safer, more peaceful inner world he had begun to build, was destroyed in that single moment of Minerva's lack of trust in him. He half-expected to look down and find the Dark Mark had returned, as black as ever.   
The world began to seem like a giant conspiracy again, the way it had before. They all hated him, were in league against him, wanted to destroy him - Minerva, Black, Potter, all of them. Perhaps they had plotted it all along; after all, if anyone deserved to suffer, it was Snape. Why couldn't they just leave him alone to crawl under a rock and die somewhere? Hadn't he made penance enough? Apparently not. He shook his head. Apparently not. It never occurred to him, in his intense ruminations about conspiracies, that he might be overreacting. It never occurred to him that if Minerva was indeed suffering some kind of trouble, she would be most unlikely to confide in Sirius Black. It never occurred to him that, although they had things in common, Minerva and Black were entirely unalike, and while perfectly amiable towards one another, had no particular liking for each other.   
Perhaps fortunately for Snape, a knock on the door broke his train of thought. He realised that he had been sitting at his desk, staring at the portrait, for over fifteen minutes.  
"Come!" He snapped.  
The door slowly opened, and a small, neatly dressed creature with goggling eyes and enormous bat-like ears peeped into the room. It was Winky, Snape's House-Elf.  
"What do you want?" He demanded.  
"Winky was wondering whether Professor Snape would like some supper." The elf said timidly, picking up on her wizard's grim mood.  
"No." Snape said coldly. "But there is something you can do for me."  
Winky perked up at the thought of carrying out a task.  
"Yes, sir?"  
"This picture," Snape waved a dismissive hand at it, "I want it removed."  
"Professor Snape wants his portrait hung somewhere else?"  
"No, imbecile, I want you to get rid of it. Burn it, break it up, throw it out, whatever you wish, just get it away from me."   
Winky was aghast.  
"But...but it is a *nice* portrait, sir!"  
"I'm not interested in your opinion. You're a house-elf, not an art critic, and you will do as I tell you. I want that picture gone in the morning."  
Winky was downcast, but did not argue.   
"Professor Snape would like something else hung in its place?"  
"Yes, yes, if you so wish, I don't care."  
He left the room, leaving Winky staring unhappily at inexplicably-happy-Snape... whose gentle smile had faded.  
  
  
  
A/N I'd really welcome reviews, comments, any kind of remark. This is turning out to be a Dark!Snape fic, quite unexpectedly. Still it might prove interesting. You know as much as I do about the plot ;-) Thoughts so far? 


	4. Chapter Two

Two  
  
A/N Thanks for the reviews so far of this new attempt :-) Apologies for the {????}, which represented a failure to remember the fencing term I was searching for - despite my fencing lessons (blush). It was, in fact, the balestra. Thanks to Henry de Silva and his book 'Fencing' for that information. My only excuse is that I never got around to the balestra, sticking with the fleche. Well, I never got beyond the basics ;-) Thanks again for your encouragement. On with the grimness...  
  
  
  
Just you and me at a crossroads then  
Ain't it funny how we were old friends...   
  
Elton John, 'Mansfield'.  
  
  
  
When Snape arrived at his tower-room office early the next morning, he found himself unhappily confronted with the portrait of Sir Cadogan, the mental knight who had once acted as portal for the Gryffindor common room. Snape did not like Sir Cadogan; nor did he like being addressed as a mangy cur at eight in the morning. His mirror had been abusive enough.   
"Save it for Sirius Black." The deputy headmaster growled, and stalked off to berate Winky. It was the second time he had treated her to the full effect of his withering stare that morning; he had complained at seven thirty that his coffee was undrinkably sweet and unbearably milky: it was, he said, the morning drink of a happy and contented person. He demanded lukewarm, black, sugarless coffee in a chipped cup. The bewildered elf rushed to provide her master's desire, becoming even more confused and distressed when Snape roared at her that his remarks had been ironical. Eventually Snape banished the baffled creature to the kitchens, from whence he dragged her to insist upon the removal of Sir Cadogan and to re-iterate that she should burn 'that bloody stupid portrait'. Winky departed without a word, completely terrified, too afraid and confused even to fret over the fact that her master had missed breakfast.  
It being a Saturday, there were no classes. Normally Snape would have enjoyed a lie-in, perhaps even allowed Winky to bring him coffee in bed, and followed it up with a leisurely breakfast with Minerva in her private quarters. It had been a tradition of longstanding between Albus Dumbledore and his deputy headmistress; McGonagall and Snape had honoured it also, until today. Snape had no idea whether or not he was welcome at Minerva's breakfast table, or indeed anywhere within half a league of her, but he knew unquestionably that he could not face the woman. Unreasonably or not, he felt betrayed. The tentative tendrils of neonatal trust that had begun to grow in him had been as brutally destroyed as weeds in Professor Sprout's mandrake population, snuffed out by a single, somewhat bizarre, almost certainly meaningless argument. He no longer felt safe socialising with McGonagall; he could hardly bear the thought of working with her. And certainly, he could not even imagine the dreadful prospect of attending the staff meeting that afternoon, and coming face-to-face with the Martyred Mongrel.  
Essentially, it felt as though the world had turned upside down. An extreme reaction to a relatively innocuous, if worrying, event, but then again very few of Snape's deep-rooted neuroses and complexes were based in anything resembling logic. His pathological hatred of Perfect Potter and Perfect Potter's perfect son; the equally vicious loathing he had felt since his schooldays for Black, an emotion which he had thought to have been rescinded in the aftermath of the final battle, but which was now back with reinforcements; the belief that the world was out to get him, paranoia plain and simple, though not altogether unwarranted in Snape's case: he had many enemies, some of them deadly, some of them laughably harmless, most middling - annoyances, to be frank. A long time ago, he had ceased to count McGonagall as one of those enemies. In the last few years, he had come to consider her a friend, or at least as close to a friend as he would allow himself to have. In the last twelve months, he had begun to see her in a different and even fonder light: she was strong, she was compassionate, she was freely and undemandingly kind to him, in an enjoyably satirical way. She respected him and considered him a friend. And slowly, hesitantly, but with increasing hope, Snape had come to trust her.   
And now she had hurt him in a way he had never thought possible. Rejected his friendship and his awkward, fumbling offers of support, in favour of (so he believed) his lifelong nemesis. Could there be a greater betrayal? The brave new world Snape had been gradually, and almost entirely subconsciously, creating inside himself was teetering, for a blow had been struck against its very foundations. Everything seemed unfamiliar and strange. It was like waking up from a surreal dream and finding that one was not a butterfly after all, but a man, and not an especially pleasant one. It was like having amnesia, then recovering your memory, only to realise that the happy man you thought you were for a brief time never existed, was merely a fake, an artefact, an illusion. That the real you was a sad, miserable, twisted, embittered bastard who lived in a dungeon and hated everyone with a passion he did not really remember how to feel.   
It was a regression. Snape tried hard to remember how he had felt a few days ago when his new life was proceeding normally. He could not bring to mind any of it - the warmth he felt when Minerva walked into the room, the occasional enjoyment he found in bantering - bantering! - with Sirius Black; the amused, frosty affection he felt for the young Slytherins under his care; the simple pleasure he took in teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts to the more capable and intelligent pupils in the school. All he felt was the same foul emptiness that had stalked him for most of his life.  
Sinking into a slightly slimy green leather chair in his dungeon office, Snape searched for some remaining flicker of the light he had been heading towards. The tunnel remained dark. There had to be someone he could turn to, someone who had never betrayed him, someone with whom he could share this horrendous experience before it overwhelmed him. Had Snape been capable of logical and objective introspection, he would have recognised the symptoms of a potential mental breakdown lurking in his psyche; perhaps a psychotic episode, perhaps a bout of particularly cruel depression, perhaps the development of some debilitating personality disorder (if he did not have one already). Or perhaps it was simply a relapse into an abnormal mental state from which he had been recovering.  
But Snape, caught up in a web of misery as much his own making as every torment he had ever experienced, was not able to seek inside himself the answers to his angry (so he believed) or frightened (in reality) questions. He needed a calmer, wiser, more trustable personality - he needed Dumbledore, the nearest to a father he had ever known, but that was impossible. Surely of all the people Snape knew, there must be someone else capable of giving advice, someone else he could speak with more or less freely, without fear of ridicule or abandonment?  
After two hours of concentrated pondering, only one possible answer presented itself. It was an appalling notion, almost laughable in its irony, and would require the swallowing of much pride. But Snape was becoming desperate.  
He went to The Burrow...  
  
...and knocked upon the door. A familiar figure, though one he had not seen for some months, greeted him - a plump witch with red hair turning grey, a comfortingly plain face, and a maternal air. Molly Weasley, though worn down by loss and years of hard fighting for what she believed in; Molly who, despite losing her brilliant brave son and sweet courageous only daughter, was a beacon of comfort and sympathy to anyone who needed it.  
Snape needed it, though he would never ask for it and would reject it if overtly offered. He waved off her surprised and (feigned, he assumed) pleased greeting, followed her into the drab kitchen, sat when invited at the scarred table.   
"Is there something I can do for you, professor?" Molly asked, her kind eyes crinkling.  
"I'm looking for Granger - Hermione, I should say. I believe she is staying with you this weekend."  
"They are, yes, but I'm afraid they - Ron and her, I mean - popped out this morning. I don't know when they'll be back. Was it something important you wanted to see her about?"  
"Not really. My world is falling apart." ~Did I really say that?~ Snape wondered.  
"You poor dear. Have a cup of tea." Apparently yes.  
Snape spent the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon drinking tea at the Weasley's battered kitchen table. He did not talk much, but watched Molly bustling about, and reflected on where the rest of the Weasley clan might be (presumably Arthur would be at work at the Ministry, as would Percy - God forbid that Percy Weasley should ever take an hour off to spend at home with his wife Penelope and their small son. Snape sometimes wondered how Percy had managed to conceive a child; he could only imagine that it had somehow been accomplished by owl, and that the over-industrious Weasley had witnessed the birth via the Daily Prophet. Charlie Weasley was still, as far as anyone knew, in Romania. The fearsome twins Fred n' George lived together in Hogsmeade, above their joke shop; probably they were plotting the next 'humorous' invention to be sprung upon an unsuspecting world). Snape also ruminated on why the Weasleys continued to live in such a dilapidated old house, when they were doing so well at the Ministry - in a couple of generations the Ministry would probably consist entirely of Weasleys, Snape mused. Perhaps that would not be an entirely bad thing. With the exception of the twins, Weasleys were a largely harmless breed, with neither the sly cunning of the Malfoys, the unspeakable perfectness of the Potters, or the simple capacity for bringing chaos out of order of the Longbottoms. Snape feared to think what kind of horrors assortative mating on the part of accident-prone Neville, the terror of the potions lab, might produce. He just hoped he would never have the dubious privilege of teaching it.   
He had to wait until almost five o'clock for Hermione and her husband to return from wherever they had been - Snape wasn't interested, especially since he suspected from the Quidditch memorabilia they carried that they had been to watch one of Potter's stupid matches. He was, however, relieved that the experience of sitting in Mrs. Weasley's kitchen, while she regaled him with gossip items from the latest issue of Witch Weekly, was over.  
"Professor!" Hermione exclaimed, spotting his lanky, greasy form immediately she stepped into the room, out of place as it was in this house of redheads. "Is anything wrong?"  
Before Snape could formulate a reply, Mrs. Weasley leaned across and whispered something in her daughter-in-law's ear. To Snape's alarm, Hermione's face immediately took on a sympathetic, maternal look rather reminiscent of Molly herself. There was, however, an even more alarming, I-know-what-you-need-don't-argue aspect to Hermione's version. Snape reconsidered his intentions and contemplated making a run for it; but Molly was setting yet another full teapot on the table, complete with scones and bread and butter, while Hermione shooed her husband out of the room.  
"Afternoon, Weasley." Snape called after the younger man's retreating back.  
"'Lo, professor. Bye." There was a shrug in the voice. Snape, who had never forgiven Ron for beating him at a game of Wizard's Chess in only twelve moves, five months ago, shrugged himself and accepted another cup of strong tea. Molly, with much gesticulating at Hermione, disappeared into another room. Hermione poured herself a cup of tea, settled back in her chair, and folded her small, slender hands in front of her. The posture reminded Snape uncomfortably of Doctor Mattheuse, a psychiatrist he had been required by the Ministry to see after his trial as a Death-Eater. What no one had realised was that Mattheuse's wife and son had been murdered by the Dark Lord after refusing to join his circle; Snape's evaluation had essentially claimed that Snape was dangerously psychotic but simultaneously entirely responsible for his actions and thus should spend the rest of his life in Azkaban; it was the only psychiatric report Snape had ever read that contained the word 'bastard'. Mattheuse had been warned by his superiors. Snape's final session with the doctor was entirely silent; Snape had simply stared at the man for an hour, while Mattheuse twitched and fingered his wand. Eventually the psychiatrist was carted off to St. Mungo's himself, while Snape was given a clean bill of mental health by a somewhat suspect muggle clairvoyant phrenologist from Dunthorpe, to his and everyone else's confusion.  
"So." Hermione Granger said, taking a sip of tea.  
"So?" Snape returned, evenly.  
"You came here for a reason."   
"Am I not allowed to make a casual visit to a colleague's house?"  
"You don't make social calls, professor."  
"I went to your wedding reception."  
"I suspect you had an ulterior motive."  
"Well, yes. I was hoping to persuade you to ditch Weasley and run away with me to the Mediterranean, but when I saw how happy you were, I didn't have the heart."  
Hermione chuckled. The tension in the atmosphere dissipated. They drank tea in companionable silence for a few minutes, then,  
"What's wrong?" Asked Hermione, quietly.  
"I have no idea."  
"Professor..."  
"I am not being sarcastic, Granger. I really have no idea. The problem is not with me."  
"Oh?"  
"It's McGonagall."   
Hermione looked worried. She and Minerva had become good friends; Hermione considered the older woman as something of a mentor.  
"Is she ill? She seemed all right yesterday..."  
"Did she? Did you speak to her? What did she say?"  
"Professor...have you and headmistress McGonagall had an argument?"  
"What are you implying?"  
"Nothing!" Hermione was startled by Snape touchiness; used to it as she was, he seemed worse than usual. "It's just," she went on, gently, "that you seemed to be getting on so well together. As colleagues, I mean." She added hastily. "It would be a pity for something to...go amiss."   
Snape didn't reply. He ate a scone moodily instead.  
"Has something...gone amiss?" Hermione prodded.   
Snape sighed, then eventually nodded.  
"Yes. McGonagall has."  
"Has what?"  
"Has gone amiss, as you put it." Grudgingly he recounted the dialogue between McGonagall and himself, almost word for word, omitting only his attempt to comfort Minerva by calling her a 'stupid woman'. Hermione would not approve of that.  
"Oh, dear." Said the young woman, thoughtfully, when he had finished. "That really doesn't sound like her."  
"She refused to tell me what was wrong."  
"Didn't you bring it up when you saw her next?"  
Snape was silent.  
"Professor...you have spoken to her since?"  
Snape looked shifty.  
"Oh, dear." She sighed again. "Would you like me to..."  
"Certainly not!"   
Hermione jumped. "I thought you wanted my help!"  
"I don't want anyone interfering. If McGonagall won't talk to me she certainly won't to you."  
"Possibly..." agreed Hermione, tactfully.  
"Nor to Sirius Black."  
"Eh?" She was baffled now.  
"What could Minerva see in him? He's too young for her."  
"He's the same age as you, professor."  
"What is that supposed to mean?"  
"Nothing, nothing at all. Surely you don't think there's anything...between them?"  
"No, there isn't. That's the problem."  
"What?" The conversation was just getting stranger.  
"There is nothing preventing them from being together." Explained Snape, bewilderingly. "Nothing at all. Nothing and no one."  
"I'm not entirely sure I follow you."  
"Few people ever have. What I mean is, that Minerva does not consider herself attached. She does not consider herself responsible for anyone else's feelings."  
"I...see. And you believe she should?" The question was dangerous, but luckily it fell on the side of diplomacy. Snape looked at her sharply, but merely shrugged.  
"She has no consideration."  
"I see."  
"She's completely thoughtless."  
"Really."  
"Doesn't give a damn about me."  
"Now that just isn't true. She's very fond of you!"  
"Fond! Ha!" Snape slammed his cup down on its saucer with a clatter. "She pities me, which I find unbearably patronising. Do you know what she once called me? Dumbledore's charity case. And the sad fact is that she was right."  
"Oh, nonsense, professor." Hermione was one of a very small handful of people who would dare to say that to Snape. "I'm sure you're taking all this far too personally. She's clearly worried about something and just lost her temper; you happened to be there. She'd be very upset to think you've taken offence like this, over nothing."  
"You call it nothing? She told me to get out!"  
"You do that several times a day, professor, without provocation."  
"But this is Minerva. She has manners. And I've never told her to get out."  
Hermione shook her head helplessly.  
"All I can suggest is that you talk to professor McGonagall and find out why she was so upset. And, professor? I honestly don't think you have to worry about competition from Sirius..."  
The eggshells finally broke.  
"Competition? What is that supposed to mean? You consider him a threat to me? Why?"  
"I didn't say that..."  
"Sirius Black is nothing but a cretinous mangy hound with all the personality of a dead lemming."  
"Professor, really! I know you're upset but Sirius is my friend, and I'd rather not listen to you talking about him like that. He's a good man."  
"Oh, I see. I see." Snape's back eyes glittered. "You as well."  
"What do you mean, me as well?"  
"You're on his side, aren't you? Et tu, Granger! I never thought you would turn against me."  
"I don't..."  
"So you betray me as well. I should have suspected. I should have known all along."  
"Professor, I don't think you're well."  
"Don't patronise me, stupid girl! After everything I did for you!"  
Hermione was affronted.  
"I worked hard to get where I am!"  
"You would never have made it without my influence. You were fortunate to have me on your side for a time, Granger, and if you're not careful, you're going to find out just how unpleasant an enemy I can be."  
"Oh, this is ridiculous!"  
"That's right!" Growled Snape. "Laugh at me! Mock me, like you always did! You and McGonagall, you're two for a pair. Use me and then toss me aside, why not, everyone else has! Sod the ugly git, his feelings don't matter! Not that I have feelings, of course. Greasy bastards aren't entitled to them, are they, Granger? How long must I keep paying for being the way I am? Well? Isn't fifty years long enough? How much blood do you wish to squeeze from this particular stone? What's the matter, Granger? Thought I wouldn't see through your concerned colleague act?"  
"It wasn't an act." Said Hermione, quietly. She has been staring at Snape with her mouth open, completely astonished, but now she met his eyes calmly. "I don't think you're well." She said again. "The last few years have been difficult for everyone, to say the least. And you've been working too hard recently. Perhaps it's finally caught up with you."  
"You'd like to think so, wouldn't you?" He hissed. "You'd like to think I'm having a nervous breakdown. Perhaps if they cart me off to St. Mungo's you'll get my job, eh? You couldn't do my job, Granger! No one could. Especially not Sirius Black. I'm needed at Hogwarts."  
"Yes, you are. I agree. No one is disputing that."  
"You're clever, Granger, too clever."  
Hermione said nothing.  
"But I see through you. You can't fool me."  
"I'm not trying to."  
"And don't think I don't know who stole the powdered unicorn horn out of my private stores."  
"What? That was years ago! I was a child!"  
"I knew then." Snape told her, triumphantly. "Of course I knew. I'm not as stupid as you think I am."  
"I don't think you're stupid. You're a very astute man, but at the moment, unfortunately, your perception seems to be distorted. You see enemies everywhere."  
"That's because I *have* enemies everywhere!"  
"Not anymore." Hermione raised her voice a little, taking control of the conversation. "Perhaps that's part of the problem. There's no one left for you to legitimately fight, professor, and you...you seem to need someone to hate. Presumably it makes you feel better about yourself. That's really very sad. I feel quite sorry for you."  
"And I feel sorry for you. Foolish, naïve child, don't you understand the world is full of hate?"  
"My world isn't." She replied, softly. "And yours doesn't have to be."  
There was a long, deep silence.   
  
  
  
  
A/N Wasn't originally going to end the chapter here, but I wanted to post it and this seemed like as good a place as any to stop. I'm aware that the characters are a little OOC, but this is set seven years into the future - I'm banking on people having changed a little in the wake of recent events. It's not easy to predict how the younger characters will behave as adults though! Any thoughts, especially on Hermione in this chapter? All reviews much appreciated :-) 


	5. Notice

Please note, I'm afraid this is just an Author's Note and not a continuation of the story.  
  
Thanks everyone for your reviews, encouragement, and enquiries about this and my other works! I just wanted to assure everyone that I *do* intend to complete all the unfinished stories. I'm in my last year at university; the workload is heavy, and although I've just got my coursework in, I have final exams coming up soon.  
  
I may be able to get some writing done before the exams are over, but if not, it will be July or so before I can get back to the stories on ff.net.  
  
Nevertheless, I want everyone to know that I haven't lost interest in these stories, and that they will - eventually - be finished! In the meantime, I'd be happy to take the email address of anyone interested in reading the stuff when it's updated, and let you know when I've added something, to save you checking back.  
  
Thanks once again everyone for your encouragement, and many thanks to my patient beta-reader, Amy.  
  
All the best to all of you!  
  
-Kerry :-) 


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